


Like A Virgin (Technically)

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:30:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Call it a medical emergency, call it a religious sacrifice, call it a glitch in the Matrix.  Take two virgins and call in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Call it a medical emergency, call it a religious sacrifice, call it a glitch in the Matrix. Take two virgins and call in the morning.

**Title:** Like A Virgin (Technically)  
 **Warning:** Virgin sacrifices! A Prime out of control! Officers having no idea what to do but they are so going to do it when they figure it out! Wheeljack! He’s a warning, right?  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Autobots, Vortex, Breakdown, Optimus Prime  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** There was a kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=15053717#t15053717), and there had been talk. It had to be written.

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 1**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

“This is not something I ever thought I would call a meeting over. Did you ever think you would be called to a meeting over this?” Prowl asked Ironhide. Without waiting for an answer, he went back to muttering, “I should not be holding an official meeting on such an absurdity. Nowhere in the regulations is this a requirement of duty. I would remember that paragraph.” 

The other officers just looked at him. No, this wasn’t in anyone’s job description, although Ratchet had volunteered to pull rank as CMO since Prowl had given him such a look of appalled helplessness after being briefed. The strategist regularly called meetings to handle humankind’s various bits of ridiculousness, but introduce one iota of ancient religious practice from their own homeworld and he lost his ability to navigate internal politics. It was certainly his duty to call meetings, but topic decided attendance. This particular topic had him stymied. Religion was harder to organize than war, and people got _so offended_ if he screwed up somehow once it was brought into otherwise mundane matters. He floundered in deep water trying to ascertain who had priority, who got called in, and who was excluded. 

Erring on the side of caution, he’d gone ahead and called everyone. Well, not _everyone_ everyone, but if they had an officer commission, an interest, or had been outside his office once he decided, they were thrown into the briefing room willy-nilly and told to sit down, this was important.

Intense discomfort brought out Sunstreaker’s surliest expressions, and he perched on a chair at the end of the table like the assembled officers were about to pass judgment on him. He still held Sideswipe’s broken jetpack in his lap. Beside him, Mirage had his energon ration in hand still, but the noblemech could make being snagged by Prowl for a disorganized mess of a meeting look like it had been the sole purpose of his day. He relaxed in his chair as if he’d bid the officers assemble today to join him for light refreshments.

Meanwhile, Prowl sat on the other end of the table and muttered. One hand hid his optics. His other held onto the meeting agenda for dear life. He hadn’t let go of it since sitting down. His knuckles creaked. Like Blaster, he couldn’t seem to meet anyone else’s optics. Blaster was examining the table. Prowl kept his hand in the way. 

The meeting officially started without any pretense of formality. “Talk,” he said from behind his hand. “Tell them what you told me. I will not repeat it.” His voice fell to an unnerved mutter, too low for anyone but Ironhide to hear. “I am not paid enough to repeat it.”

Ratchet blinked at him for a few seconds. “That’s my cue, I guess.” He stood up and hesitated, holding a brief internal debate over whether to make his briefing as painless or as informative as possible. None of it was classified, but a lot of mechs didn’t like to think about what the meeting had been called to address. The personal details of their religious leader were exactly that: personal. Respecting another person’s privacy was courteous, after all.

He decided to strike a balance. There was no reason to spare anyone valuable, painful knowledge. Like he was getting paid extra for this? Bah. They could all know too much. He knew what he knew because responsibility for the Prime’s health fell on the Chief Medical Officer. The Prime’s health included his mental health. The Prime’s spark and mind were heavily influenced by the Matrix. Caring for the Prime, by default, meant that Ratchet knew a Pit of a lot about the religious side of things if only because the Matrix tied into Optimus’ systems so deeply.

The Matrix wasn’t just the Autobot Matrix of Leadership. It was the Creation Matrix. Almost by default, the Autobots military functioned as a theocracy. While the ranks would probably follow Optimus even if he wasn’t the chosen Prime, being an ethical, inspirational, charismatic leader was only part of what put him at the head of the army. There were a lot of skeptical, apathetic Autobots in the ranks, but not one single atheist. Nobody but the Dinobots refuted the Prime’s Primus-ordained right to lead, and the Dinobots were abominations of the natural order of Cybertron life, anyway. Nobody cared about their heathen ideas of merit-based appointment to office. ‘Earning’ rank, pfft, what an idea. What were they, Decepticons? 

Military leadership was a new duty, however. The Prime’s main duties, first and foremost, would always be religious. Prowl had evaded in-depth knowledge of the Prime’s periodic religious requirements by respecting that anything the Medical Division stamped ‘personal health care’ on need not be investigated. Ratchet would tell him to take over duties, Optimus Prime would disappear for a little while into medical care, and Prowl would carry on in blissful ignorance until isolation ended. The Prime would re-emerge to resume his place. Afterward, everything would continue on as normal. 

See, that? Very organized, and not a hint of religion. Prowl could deal with that. Seclusion with a timetable was easy to accommodate. He even knew the circumstances that preceded Optimus Prime’s short periods of non-injury-related medical isolation. Every once and a while, the Autobots’ esteemed leader would sink into an odd depression, turning short-tempered, irritable, and prone to physical violence against even his fellow Autobots. Prowl thought it to be chained recklessness, perhaps repressed guilt or anger from the war, but sending the Prime out into battle led to greater risk without seeming to calm him any. That’s why the Medical Division handled it.

The Autobots had just let the Prime’s bad mood run its course, back before the Medical Division took over. There had been assaults, early on in the war. Prowl hadn’t been at sufficient rank at the time to have witnessed what had happened, but Ratchet had. He’d seen Optimus Prime blindly turn on his closest comrades, raging and tearing them open as if searching for something. Afterward, the guilt for harm done devastated the Prime.

Hurting Decepticons did nothing during those periods. It was always his friends Optimus struck out at.

Ratchet told the table full of uneasy Autobots about that, but he didn’t tell them about the prayer, the experiments, or the grief counseling that had eventually led to discovering the problem’s source. The Matrix was at fault for Optimus’ mood swings. Attacking Autobots was also its fault. Something about the intersection of physical activity and the intimacy of a friendly relationship triggered a release in the Matrix, reaffirming some sort of connection between it, its chosen carrier, and Primus. That was the best explanation Ratchet and the collection of professionals involved in looking for answers could provide. 

Ratchet also didn’t tell the Autobots here today about the horrible invasions of privacy involved in finding a more viable solution. Nobody wanted to link their god and violence. Ripping into a friend seemed like the antithesis of what kind of physical activity should trip the Matrix’s strange trigger. The working theory, back then, had been that the Matrix and Primus desired their Prime to be wholly loved, surrounded and immersed in every aspect of the people. If Optimus Prime upped his love life whenever the Matrix started winding him up, the increased physical activity and emotional closeness should theoretically trigger the needed release. 

Optimus liked that theory a lot. Many of the Autobots liked that theory a lot. Optimus had been a dock worker, once upon a time in a former life before the Primacy, and carnal relations down in the loading areas were as easy to arrange as yelling a lewd comment at the right moment across a crowd. He was more than happy to bring that aspect of his life back. The working class in the rank and file of the faction adopted his merry, free-love ways quite happily. 

It’d worked, sort of. The obvious solution for physical activity and intimacy had soothed the Prime and resulted in far less guilt, but it had been a stopgap measure. The irritability and searching behavior subsided. It didn’t stop. It flared up repeatedly and unpredictably, causing surges of violence that frequent interfacing didn’t help. Something had been missing.

A chance, passing encounter had tossed the solution wholesale into Ratchet’s lap. Optimus had been rolling through the berths of whoever was willing, joyful as such a tactile hedonist could be, and at some point the restless energy just…stopped. He still interfaced half the army for fun, but the never-ending searching, questing behavior had disappeared overnight, replaced by his normal peaceful grace. 

The Medical Division had dragged in his last fortnight’s worth of lovers, conducted an embarrassingly thorough investigation into them, and as a result, they’d produced a second, derivative theory. Testing the theory had required yet more planning and more embarrassment on everyone’s part. Optimus Prime, strangely enough, had been ruefully resigned to the whole ordeal.

“It’s my duty as Prime. I trust Primus not to lead me astray. Besides, it’s better than losing control and punching someone in the face,” he’d told Ratchet. “This at least makes sense. Interfacing has always been one of Primus’ most treasured blessings upon us, and touching another’s spark is often the closest we come to touching His face.”

Ratchet, who had more experience dealing with the medical side of carefree love than any six medics ever should, tended to think of fragging as one of the more profane activities available and the furthest thing possible from a religious experience. He’d kind of felt like he was missing something. 

He’d wisely kept his mouth shut about it and just nodded. He’d done his best to shove every Autobot through mandatory Sexual Transmitted Virus testing and treatment upon enlistment, too.

He tried not to let his view on the matter color his explanation now, but natural sarcasm plus color-coded charts and an annotated _’Guide to the Monastic Life for Laymechs’_ probably didn’t disguise his practical take on a very religious matter. He simply didn’t have the patience for preaching. Laid out simply, the Prime had started to get testy lately. Ratchet knew the signs. A more mystically-inclined mech would frame events in flowery terms with sacred meditations, bonds of gods and mortals, and reestablishing the balance of the Matrix and Prime, but they didn’t have a mystically-inclined mech. They had Ratchet, and Ratchet informed them of what was going on in very blunt language that might have traumatized poor Mirage for life.

The nobility of Iacon had been into secretive religious rites and obscure holy days. Ratchet tore the veil of blissful ignorance off Mirage’s optics, ran it through a shredder, and stapled a vivid illustration of reality in its place. The noblemech’s kicked cyberpuppy look was on par with Blaster’s ‘Things I Didn’t Want To Know’ stare at the table and Prowl’s ‘Why Is This My Life’ refusal to look at anyone. Since they were trapped on Earth without the option of letting the Medical Division discreetly take care of the matter, Ratchet ignored their trauma.

This was what was happening: the Matrix was a connection between god and mortal, but being stuck in a mortal’s body caused it to fall out of sync with Primus. It didn’t like this. It sought a reset. 

This was what had to be done: they had to sacrifice a virgin to the Matrix.

“A virgin,” Prowl said faintly. “I am not qualified for this position.” No one was clear if he was referring to his current rank or lack of virginity. They were a little afraid he’d resign on the spot if they asked him to clarify. 

Jazz gingerly patted him on a door. “That’s, uh. That’s something. Why a virgin?”

Ratchet shrugged at Perceptor. Perceptor shuffled through the charts until he found the one on spark resonance. “As we can deduce from the atrium venereal particles in this model, intercourse mingles not only energy but substance. It is possible to destroy or create certain type of matter but not energy, and the equal trade of energy creates the pleasurable sensation of interfacing while the trading of mass fuels the cycle pushing our bodies to overload as it changes form. The overload is indeed nothing but foreign particles burning in the spark, creating excess energy that must be expunged.”

Prowl actually lowered his hand from his optics, cautiously emerging from hiding. He was comforted by solid science talk, even if it was about the science of interfacing. Science! Science was good! Religion, no, religious stuff he didn’t know where to start. Theology wasn’t a science; it was interpretation. He fastened onto Perceptor’s words like they would save him from Ratchet’s briefing. “A virgin emits more energy?”

“More particles?” Ironhide guessed at the same time.

“I could build a machine for that,” Wheeljack said.

There was a moment of silence.

“Please do not.”

“Aw, c’mon, Prowl.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“But **Ratchet** …”

Perceptor shook his head. “The amount of energy and mass is irrelevant. Rather, the importance lies in the unmingled nature of an untouched spark. The atrium venereal particles don’t all burn upon contact with another spark; a significant number of particles displace particles of matching mass and pulse rate. Being identical, they have no impact upon the new spark unless diseased, but they are not adapting particulates. They retain their source, registering on scans for millennia and detectable as a foreign energy sign in the spark if burnt. A virgin is, in the strictest sense of atrium venereal particles, entirely original.”

That took a minute to process. The more excited Perceptor became the faster he talked, and he had a handful of charts he used to illustrate his lecture. They were somewhat distracting. They could pass for pornography in some circles. 

“Wait, so are we looking for somebody who’s never fragged, or just never done the deed spark-to-spark?” Sunstreaker asked. He hunched over the jetpack in his lap when the table turned as if suddenly remembering he was there. “What? I’m just asking if Prime needs a sealed chamber to bust open or -- “

“Don’t make me think of the Prime ‘busting’ anyone open, please,” Mirage murmured from beside him. His optics tinged green around the edges. “That’s profane.” Optimus berth-hopping through the _Ark_ in close-quarters to him apparently hadn’t been enough to disabuse him of the notion of the Prime being a dignified vessel untainted by outside influence. The nobles had had an elaborate social system and religious structure that had put value on someone’s interfacing worth by their social rank. Celibacy and denial of bodily pleasures had been preferable over interfacing below one’s station.

Optimus Prime, ex-dock worker and indulger in all pleasures of the metal and frame, hadn’t fit their image of a Prime. Mirage had shed many of the beliefs of his caste throughout the war, but Ratchet’s briefing was still a rude shock to someone who’d cultured a polite blindness to reality.

In full lecture mode, Perceptor didn’t notice Mirage’s distress. “Ah, forgive me. I should have clarified the definition of virginity used in this context. For our purposes, a virgin is not defined by prior interfacing. We’re looking for someone whose spark is pure of particle and energy.” 

Prowl nodded, optics on his tablet as he pulled up a blank document and started planning a crew announcement. This he could do! One short request over the P.A. system, and they’d have this taken care of. 

“Of course, a dictionary-definition virgin is virtually impossible to find, as in-depth medical examinations violate the isolation from outside influence. Opening the spark chamber at all introduces foreign matter to the spark. The induction examination upon joining the Autobots guarantees not one of us meets that definition.” 

Prowl’s fingers paused. 

“What we are searching for is the religious definition of purity, as is determined by the lack of foreign atrium venereal particles deposited by sexual exchange.” Prowl’s hand slowly left the tablet in order to hide his optics again as Perceptor gestured to a chart, happily lecturing away, totally oblivious to Prowl’s crushed hopes. “Interface and medical history are largely irrelevant. Our virgin can have indulged in any form of interfacing or spark contact **but** a spark-merge.”

“Literally any,” Ratchet added. “Our last virgin was Smokescreen, and a full spark-merge is the only thing he hadn’t done.” It’d taken days of screening candidates to find one who even remembered his sexual history well enough to eliminate spark merging from the list of possible interfacing options. The problem with a lifespan of millions of years was that individual sexual acts tended to blur into a vague recollection of a frag.

Perceptor nodded. “The religious aspect is what carries meaning. Although ethics forbid us from extensive testing on our subject -- I refer to Optimus Prime, obviously -- it has been determined that the limitation on foreign atrium venereal particles is entirely based on method of acquisition. They cannot have been traded via a sexual interface. Foreign atrium venereal particles traded during a spark-to-spark jumpstart have been proven not to count.” 

“Why’s it even matter?” Ironhide demanded. “Why’s Prime gotta have somebody whose spark ain’t been played with? How’s that religious? Thought it was a Prime thing to ‘face around.” Mirage flinched.

Ratchet scowled for a second, then huffed. “I could give you the science theory, but it’s a load of scrap. Ah-ah!” He held up a finger to forestall Perceptor. “Scrap. You don’t know and you’re making up reasons: it’s scrap. Religious theory,” Prowl’s engine whined complaint, “is that it’s trying to reset and remember its divine origins. The only atrium venereal particles we’re forged carrying are our own. We merge with other people and pick up energy and matter from their sparks as we go. Virgins are untouched by all but Primus, so!” He clapped his hands decisively. “Closest the Matrix can get to merging with Primus.”

Ironhide started to answer, hesitated, and settled back in his chair without saying anything. His frown covered unease. He wasn’t a religious mech, but scoffing in the face of their god wasn’t something he could do, either. Prowl seemed to regret life itself. Blaster had switched to staring at the ceiling. Jazz was slowly writing a list of what at first looked like obscenities but was actually the interface history of as many Autobots as he could remember. Wheeljack was reading it with interest. Mirage glared at Perceptor and those evil educational charts. Sunstreaker didn’t seem to know what to do with the information he’d been told, and Red Alert hadn’t looked up from his work once during the whole meeting. If it didn’t have anything to do with Security, he really didn’t care.

Ratchet glanced around the table. “That’s what we need. Now we get to the fun part.”

Prowl twitched, face apprehensive as he turned it toward the medic. 

“I know for a fact that there isn’t an Autobot on Earth who meets the criteria.” 

Jazz stopped writing and blinked. “How d’you know that?”

Ratchet smiled grimly. “But I also know for a fact that the virgin doesn’t have to be an Autobot.”

This caused Red Alert to repeat Jazz’s question at a much higher volume and with considerably more sputtering. Strangely enough, he had an abrupt interest in the meeting. Things were suddenly _all_ about Security, to his mind.

“In fact, the Matrix might prefer a Decepticon. For religious reasons, you understand.” The sly smile Ratchet wore said it might be for other, more physical reasons as well. Unified people of Cybertron and everything as well, but unifying Autobot and Decepticon on the one-on-one level. 

Red Alert went silent as the medic sent him a file, and soon after he looked no less alarmed but far more intrigued by how this conclusion had come about.

Prowl put his face in his hands and muttered about not wanting to know these things. Why was there a meeting about these things. He’d never thought he’d have to call a meeting about these things.

Beside him, Jazz let him mutter on and merely raised his voice to be heard above the whining. “We gotta recruit a ‘Con? How’s that work?”

Blaster reluctantly raised his hand. “That’d be me.” His head stayed tipped back as he gave the ceiling his attention, but he knew when everyone had turned to look at him. “Decepticreeps know Primus. Megs wants the Matrix, the Primacy -- all that and a bag of chips. So it’s not like he don’t respect what it stands for and does, you follow? He’s just, uh, the opposite of holy, but guess that’s not gonna stop him. He don’t trample his mechs’ right to worship, just messes up their access routes.”

“The Algorithm Chapel bombing,” Red Alert said, thoughtful. “There were still Decepticons inside. He didn’t put a ban on attending services, but he didn’t hesitate to take out the block.”

“Yeah, that. The idea’s that if we frame recruiting a virgin as a religious necessity, he won’t stand in the way.” Prowl’s engine made a sad little gurgling noise of dismay. Blaster coughed into his hand. “Just, uh, means I gotta hold interviews asking stuff I really, really don’t want to talk about, mechs.” The sexual exploits of the other faction. Just what he wanted to get into a conversation with Decepticons over.

Red Alert grimaced and closed the file Ratchet had sent him. “And apparently I’ll be doing security screening on any Decepticon who applies.”

“The only question is how we’re going to spring this on the ‘Cons without giving Megatron time to set up sabotage.” Ratchet folded his arms. “Few times we managed this, it was done as a sort of private pilgrimage thing, and so far as anyone can tell, the Decepticons involved never talked about it to their higher-ups. Or their higher-ups never asked.”

What sounded like, “I would never want to ask,” came from behind Prowl’s hand.

Silence filled the room as everyone sat and thought over the problem.

Wheeljack looked around the table. “I say we open a booth.”

“What?”

“Yeah, a booth! We could stage something to catch their attention and bring ‘em out, then put a big colorful fair booth out to the side once we lured them to the right place, and anybody could step up.”

“What?”

“It’d work! It’d be tricky enough that they wouldn’t see it coming in time to plot around it, and buckethead won’t attack a religious event if he doesn’t understand what it’s about, so we could get somebody to corner him to explain what the Matrix requires -- he’ll be interested in that, he’s always interested in that kind of stuff, Prowl should do the explaining to make it an official inter-faction meeting -- “

“ **What?** ”

“ -- and that’ll give Blaster at least **some** time to interview some of the ‘Cons. See what I mean? It’d work!”

“…someone please tell me they have a better idea.”

“No one has better ideas than me.”

“Everyone has better ideas than you.”

“Name one!”

“Uh.”

“That’s what I thought.” Wheeljack harrumphed, but there was an audible smirk in his voice. He knew when he’d lit on the solution. Now he could sit back and wait for the arguing to circle back around to his idea. They’d come around to agreeing, in the end. The other Autobots were only fighting the inevitable. 

He was right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Like A Virgin (Technically)  
 **Warning:** Virgin sacrifices! A Prime out of control! Officers having no idea what to do but they are so going to do it when they figure it out! Wheeljack! He’s a warning, right?  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Autobots, Vortex, Breakdown, Optimus Prime  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** There was a kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=15053717#t15053717), and there had been talk. It had to be written.

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 2**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

“Why are we here?”

Vortex continued to kick his heels against the berth. “Don’t they give the newbuilds downloads on creation theory anymore? I’m not your fragging teacher. Go ask -- I don’t know, Shockwave or Soundwave or somebody else with ‘wave’ in their name. They’re good for philosophy lessons.”

Breakdown bristled. “I’m older than you!”

“You are **not**.” Vortex’s scorn, Stunticon. Feel it. 

“Am too! We were brought online way before you nutcases.”

Vortex half-turned on the berth to give the smaller Decepticon an incredulous look. Had the paranoid mech from the grab-bag of mental problems known as the Stunticons just called the _Combaticons_ crazy? Was this seriously a thing that had just happened? “That’s not how age works, bolthead. Stasis just means we didn’t age while we were boxed up, not that we started over.”

“Nu-uh. I don’t believe you. You’re younger than me.” Breakdown’s chin jutted out, stubborn but also hiding his grin. Messing with the Combaticons was a Motormaster-approved Stunticon pastime, and it wasn’t often he felt like he could taunt this particular Combaticon safely. Having Vortex openly stare at him couldn’t making him any more nervous than being in the Autobot base, in an Autobot room, under Autobot surveillance because that other Lamborghini -- the one that didn’t look as good as the red and yellow ones -- said he didn’t trust two Decepticons and the Prime alone together in a room without a dozen cameras in place to make sure nothing happened. He was already a jittery mess, so why not bait the Combaticon? 

An unwise choice, as Vortex took the lack of Decepticon supervision -- Autobots didn’t count for scrap metal in either of their minds-- as permission to attempt folding Breakdown into his altmode without care for the transformation joints already in place for that purpose. The door opened during the ongoing fight over Breakdown’s disapproval of this attempt. Vortex was larger, but he was only a combiner’s arm, and from a weaker combiner at that. Breakdown was Menasor’s _leg_. He was built to kick aft, and he’d done exactly that to Bruticus, in fact. There had been a dent in the shape of his leg altmode in the Combaticons’ collective aft. Plus, he was meant to fight on the ground in close quarters, unlike the helicopter Combaticon. 

Vortex had experience on his side, but Breakdown was holding his own. Mainly by flailing a lot as Vortex tried to pin him down on the berth, but flailing meant he still had limbs free to hit the Combaticon repeatedly with. The clanging and bouncing made an atrocious amount of noise as Vortex struggled to stay on top, knees clamped onto Breakdown’s hips. He rode the bucking mech for all he was worth. 

He finally got a grip on the Stunticon’s wrists and slammed them against the headboard. “Ha!”

“Lemme go, newbie!”

“Call me that **one more time** , wheels, just one more, and I’ll -- “

“Ahem.” Surprised, they looked toward the door when someone cleared his throat. “Did you start without me?” rumbled deep and low.

For Autobots, having their leader loom over them on a berth shaking the floor with the bass rumble of his engine triggered the need to drag said leader down onto the berth to join in the fun. For Decepticons, the reaction wasn’t quite the same.

Vortex launched straight up, now holding onto Breakdown for purposes of rescue instead of junking. Breakdown held onto him just as fiercely. It would have been a great example of cooperation under pressure if Vortex’s jump to transform didn’t turn into a jump to nowhere. Right, the Autobots had stuck inhibitor claws on them both. The two Decepticons surged up off the berth and fell immediately off the side, wearing identical expressions of shock as they hit the floor. So much for escaping in a whirl of rotor blades and obscene gestures.

Optimus Prime peered down over the berth at the pile of Decepticons. He said nothing, but his optics sparkled in amusement.

There was a long, embarrassed pause. Vortex pressed his visor to the floor to avoid looking upward. Breakdown seemed paralyzed by the weight of the Prime’s gaze. He sprawled out on top of Vortex as if he didn’t dare move. Neither of them wanted to end the fragile moment before the laughter started. It was one thing to trip over one another in front of regular Autobots. Those, they’d gang up on and beat the motors out of if the cogsuckers dared laugh. Optimus Prime, on the other hand, could snap them in two without effort. When he started laughing, they’d just have to steep in shame while sorting themselves out to stand up.

“This is why we’re here,” Vortex muttered into the floor. “This. That. Him.” He began to twist around, pulling his legs up to test how he could get out from under Breakdown. 

The Autobots had asked for volunteers, probably in attempt to appeal to the more religious among the Decepticons. Instead, Onslaught and Motormaster had volunteered Vortex and Breakdown as part of their political maneuvering. The Stunticons weren’t religious mechs, but Motormaster couldn’t offer his team up fast enough once Megatron grudgingly okayed the Autobots’ bizarre recruitment drive, and the two combiner teams were in a perpetual one-upmanship competition. Once Motormaster made a move, Onslaught had anted up.

Making Vortex and Breakdown their current markers in the Decepticon internal power game, moved to the Autobot base like chess pieces on a board. That was why they were really here, not for the Prime. They were the virgin sacrifices to their unit commanders’ powerplays. 

Breakdown helped untangled their feet as he held Optimus’ gaze. He whispered, “He’s looking at me funny,” out of the corner of his mouth. 

Aw, scrap. Onslaught had made it painfully clear to Vortex that he’d be chained in a basement somewhere to rust for a couple years if he didn’t catch the Prime’s optic first. _He_ was supposed to be the one ravished in the name of Primus, or whatever was going on. To be honest, Vortex hadn’t been listening during the explanation to Megatron. Watching Prowl squirm had been more fun than paying attention. Then, out of nowhere, Onslaught had pulled him by the rotor hub into an emergency huddle with the other Combaticons and started asking some really specific questions about their interfacing habits. Everything had gone to the Pit soon after.

Onslaught had never had much interest in their personal lives. He was Vortex’s commander, not his confidante or even casual buddy. It’d been one of the more awkward conversations the team had ever had. He didn’t need to know the things he knew now about the other Combaticons, not even to use for spreading malicious gossip. Considering the fact that three of his four teammates had interfaced with _inanimate Earth vehicles_ and evidently felt no shame about admitting it, he didn’t see any point to knowing this information.

He'd expected better of Blast Off, if nobody else. That was just…wow. Human shuttles as orbital fragtoys. Overshare much?

Most of that conversation could be, should be, and would be blotted from his memory files the minute he had some time to himself. Vortex had thought himself into some fairly kinky stuff, but it turned out his team put him to shame. Worse than just learning that, he'd endured listening to their sordid sexual histories only to be thrown into competition with a Stunticon, of all mechs, as some sort of sacrificial virgin according to an extremely narrow definition of what a virgin was. 

He should have just lied about the spark merging. It'd have saved him a lot of trouble.

Although it had been a long, long time since Vortex had thought of himself as inexperienced at any form of kink, much less a virgin in any way. If he thought about it that way, this could be exciting. He was here to do something new in the berth! With Optimus Prime, who had to be a kink in and of himself. There couldn't be too many Decepticons with _him_ on their list of sexual exploits.

Or if there were, nobody was admitting it, and Vortex had gotten the feeling Soundwave was going to tear the ranks apart looking for prior incidents. Maybe he was lucky to be here in the Autobot base right now. Megatron had been looking a mite tetchy. 

He didn’t get what the big deal was. It was just a spark-merge. He’d gone millions of years without even thinking about it. He could have lived his entire life without noticing if Onslaught hadn't started demanding whether or not he'd ever done it. They merged their bodies and minds into a combiner, for Primus' sake. Why it mattered whether or not his spark was 'pure' was beyond him.

Religious stipulations in general baffled him. He observed all the major holidays like a proper mech should and wrote on the crypt walls the names of those he tortured to death, if he knew them, but other than that? It was a bunch of rules that made less sense than military regulations. Priests in the Decepticons tended to be terribly conflicted people torn between the Cause and the fact that their religious leader actually led the opposing faction.

Said religious leader lifted Breakdown off the Combaticon effortlessly, prompting a squawk from Breakdown. Vortex banged his forehelm on the floor. From the rumble of truck engines and Breakdown's whimper, he'd lost the competition before it even began. Onslaught was going to be pissed. He sighed and turned over to look upward. Might as well watch since he was stuck in the room until Red Alert let...them...oh.

The Prime held Breakdown with an arm under his waist and a hand behind his helm, cushioning the sharp arch of the smaller mech's body as Breakdown's shoulders and heels pushed into the berth. Heavy armor covered the rest of Breakdown, folded around him like a second layer of plating. The berth itself vibrated almost violently as Optimus Prime buried his mask into bared neck cables and pulled Breakdown impossibly closer, chest to chest and tires scuffing between his knees as Breakdown's feet pushed along the berth. Nervous hands that couldn’t decide what was safe to touch suddenly clawed for a good handhold to yank the Prime closer. Breakdown’s soft, stunned whimper transitioned straight into moaning, and vibrations barely this side of dangerous shook the floor as his engine roared to life.

"Mrglebuh," Vortex said. He reset his vocalizer and realized he didn't have anything more coherent to add.

It was enough to catch the Prime's attention. Dark blue optics lit and turned, a dense _presence_ sweeping around the room as the big Autobot's head swung about. Those optics landed on him like a physical weight, or like a hand lashing out to seize him as their gazes met. What looked out from behind the blue glass wasn't a mech.

Divinity judged him. Primal simplicity set hooks into his spark. Infinite possibilities spoke directly into his mind. Life whispered a thousand urges through the back of his thoughts, trickling echoes of action into his sensor network.

Vortex stiffened, visor wide. His hands and knees thrummed in time with the floor, the dueling engines, the sudden throbbing pulse of interfacing felt in his chest and the palms of his hands. He wasn’t hooked up to anyone, but his equipment hummed into rapidfire cycle as if he were in the middle of a frenzied interface with a partner feeding ten times his energy output into the circuit. His fingers twitched, digging into the floor, and he whined, caught by a yearning he didn't understand. A few seconds and an eternity later, the Matrix released him. The Prime turned back to nuzzling under Breakdown's chin. 

Vortex jolted, fuel pump abruptly pounding as if he'd woken from a trance. His spark ached, and his body jumped from 0 to _need_ in the flicker of an optic, fans whirring to dump heat he had to gasp to dispel before his systems redlined. His hardware pinged for hook-up, hook-up _now_

He didn't have time to think about it, since most of his higher thought processes abandoned ship, scorched by a tidal wave of lust. Energy, light, and crackling _sound_ burst from where Breakdown's chest met Optimus', and he could have sworn there wasn't any room for their plating to rearrange yet somehow their sparks were right there, meeting, melding, merging, becoming a blazing star blasting burnt, hot air into his face. It reeked of interfacing, groaning and guttural, and something else. Something singing high and searing across all his senses underneath the urgent panting vents from Breakdown.

Cables tangled, writhing and tangling, but Breakdown’s hands were free when he could lay off pawing at the Prime in a futile attempt to get closer yet. Metal screeped as the Stunticon shook. He fumbled, passion rendering him clumsy, and Vortex didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath until connectors clicked home and every vent he had flipped open in shuddering moan. Breakdown gave a loud, broken cry, but Vortex overbalanced on his knees and fell forward against the side of the berth, staring hungrily from not nearly close enough.

The Prime's growling baritone ordered, "Now."

Breakdown gasped, jerked, and overloaded in a hard snap of circuit breakers. Metal screeched as his hands scratched frantic need into the Autobot's shoulders, tense zigzag lines of quivering pleasure carved through red and blue paint as each breaker went off in a long cascade through his body until he gave one last convulsive thrust up and dropped offline, going limp in the Prime’s arms. Optimus Prime shook twice as hard, nearly crushing the smaller mech to him.

Their warring engines stopped so suddenly the lack of sound and vibration splashed ice across Vortex's internals. He shuddered, staring. He couldn't have looked away even if he wanted to, and he didn't. His rotor blades clattered against his back, and his spark rippled in his chest, reaching against the chamber wall for a partner that wasn't in reach.

Onslaught probably would have said something about turning the situation to their advantage at this point, maybe told him to set up either the Prime or the Stunticon, but the only thing Vortex could think of was crawling up onto the berth and wedging himself between them to take his turn. He -- he wanted to touch. He wanted to curl into that open chest and feel that strange, indescribable presence of being grab ahold of him again. Then he wanted a hot, fast frag how he never had before.

Was fragging the Prime a kink? It was totally a kink. Vortex had a Prime kink. An Optimus Prime fetish. Mmm. Interfacing Optimus Prime.

The Prime lit his optics just as Vortex shuffled on his knees, about to lift his hands to stroke heated armor. The Combaticon froze, hands up. That wasn't a look that invited groping. It was sharp and aware, the calculating look of a commander instead of the heavy, sensual gaze of a lover.

"...Decepticon."

Vortex gave an awkward little wave, debating if he should sneak a grope anyway. "Autobot."

Optimus narrowed his optics. No touchy-touchy, Decepticon. "What are you doing here?" He seemed to notice he was lying on top of someone a second later, however, and looked down into Breakdown's blissed-out, if unconscious, face. "Back-up?"

"Spare." He shrugged at the Prime's startled blink. "You chose him, or maybe he was just in reach first. Who knows." His hardware informed him that _he_ was in reach _now_ , so how about choosing him for the next round, huh? 

"I see." Optimus sat up, wincing. Joints creaked. He hesitated a second before asking, "Were both of you willing?"

Vortex stared. "You're joking, right? You -- " He waved his hands in illustration. "You. You're very, um, convincing. I was convinced." Seduced, right, that was the word. He'd been seduced. Overheat warnings were still popping up in his HUD, belated red lights he was finally noticing now that he wasn't completely focused elsewhere. Oh, that had been good. "Can I sign up for next time right now? I mean, I'll wait. I'll keep my spark chamber closed and everything, but I just -- can I get my name at the top of the list? First dibs."

The Prime looked down at him blankly. "I'll...I'll keep that in mind."

"Write it down."

"I'll write it down."

"Get Prowl to write it down."

"That's not necessary."

"It's not that I don't believe you, but just to make sure?"

"Very well. I'll ask Prowl to write it down as well."

Vortex beamed. This virginity thing was turning out to be pretty awesome.


End file.
